


ShamROCK my world, amirite?

by ghostie_withthemostie



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Blood (light), Crazy, Drinking, F/M, Oral Sex, Swearing, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6321880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostie_withthemostie/pseuds/ghostie_withthemostie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s St. Patrick’s Day! You head out for a night out on the town dressed as the Easter Bunny. End up running into a certain merc with a mouth who chose to appear in a Santa costume. The perfect balance of crazy for a super fun evening, if you ask me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ShamROCK my world, amirite?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first DP/Reader! How fun! Please comment if you enjoyed it, that would mean the world to me ~  
> or you know, i guess if you hated it you can comment too. your call. not as fun for me, but i respect it.

St. Patrick’s Day in New York City: always a shit show. The bars throw their doors open wide, shamrock-bedazzled patrons stumbling from one to the next in an unending line of debauchery. It was _exactly_ your kind of evening. Your friends meet you at your place before heading out, decked with green glittery top hats and beaded necklaces with shot glasses shaped like beer mugs attached, ready for the festivities.

“Is _that_ what you’re wearing?” One friend asks incredulously.

“What the fuck’s wrong with it?” Your shout combatively, the pre-game drinks making your voice loud and shrill.

She lifts her hands in a placating gesture, “I’m just saying…you know it’s St. Patrick’s Day, right? Leprechauns, four leaf clovers, beer? That thing? And you-you’re uh…”

“The goddamn Easter Bunny, that’s right.” You burp and grab your egg-shaped clutch, “So hop along, bitches. And try to keep up.”

\------

A few hours in, and perhaps the pre-gaming wasn’t necessary. You were just trying to save yourself the physical and financial hangover of over-priced green beer, but it seems like everyone is down to buy the Easter Bunny a shot on St.Paddy’s. Drunk out-of-towners are rushing up to take selfies with you at every new bar you stumble into and you make sure to smile pretty and raise a middle finger for each and every one. You lost your friends at some point in the mad rush. This is nothing new. Probably ditched you, the whores. You’ll wake up somewhere tomorrow to a bevy of texts _: -What happened, girl??? We lost u!!! U ok? Make it home??_ L _-_ Respond with poop emoji and go on with your day. Whatever.

You’re sitting at the bar of stop number...something. You had to shove a fuckboy off a stool to get a place to sit but he was either too drunk or too enamored of you in your costume to get properly angry. Pity. Also a pity was that he wanted to stay and chat after.

“Buy me a drink.” You demand, straightening your bunny ears and winking at him.

“Sure, sure, anything you want!!!” He laughs and snaps a picture of you taking a sip of the emerald concoction. Why so heavy handed with the food dye? You’re going to be shitting green for a week.

“Wh-why t’fuck are you dressed up for….for Easter? You know it’s the wrong holiday, right? Haha…that’s so random!!!” He slurs, pressing close to you to be heard over the clamor of the bar.

You slam the glass down, shattering it. No one reacts. It’s that kind of night. You turn to him, eyes burning. “How fucking dare you!!! Easter is an incredibly important religious holiday. I’m here to make a statement. Everyone is out here being disgusting and lustful and I am just here to remind everyone of who died for their sins!”

Two wasted, unfocused eyes blink at you dimly. “Th-….The Easter Bunny?”

You shove a finger in his face. “You’re damn fucking right. Get me another one of those.” You gesture vaguely to the shattered mess in front of you.

Before your beverage can arrive a new sort of ruckus pops up outside of the bar. Excited shouting and screaming and a mad press of bodies around a single figure. Even in your stylish, fuzzy platforms you’re unable to see what the center of the commotion is. You turn back to the bar, unconcerned. Probably a celebrity. Oh, well. When you hear who it was later you can say you were there at the same time, took a shot with them, whatever. Who’s gonna know?

“Hellooooo, can I please get a drink over here??!!” You shout to no one in particular.

“Make it two, barkeep. On Tony Stark’s tab, if you will.”

You turn to face the new occupant on the stool next to you, raising an eyebrow. It’s…Deadpool. You recognize him from the news, the internet…of course you knew who he was. You’re pretty shocked that the press of bodies around him has lapsed, but then you see the former occupant of the stool, knocked out cold on the ground, and maybe you can understand their hesitance. Even more interesting though, was his outfit. The ever present red and black suit was there, of course, but over that…

“Ho ho ho, little bunny. Happy Arbor Day!” Deadpool (presumably, of course, you couldn’t see his eyes under the mask) winked and tipped his Santa Claus hat-clad head in your direction. The costume was complete with white-trimmed red coat and groaty, straggly white beard. All looked as if it had been stolen off the body of a drunk department store Santa many years ago.

“I can never keep all these holidays straight, so confusing. Months. Days. I haven’t kept a calendar since 1994. Glad to see someone has the same problem. Love your tail, is it real?” The mercenary rambled, rapid-fire at you, before turning again to the bartender. “Anyway, I was serious about those drinks. _And_ about putting them on Stark’s tab. He won’t even notice, the rich douchebag.” He turned to you again. “He’s a close, personal friend, you see.”

“I-I’m sure he is.” You swallowed, smiling gamely. “In that case, make mine a double.”

Deadpool threw his head back and laughed, startling everyone around him. “That’s the spirit! You heard the rabbit, top shelf only for my fuzzy friend here!”

You hadn’t had a drink arrive so quickly all evening. “Cheers,” he clinked his glass against the rim of yours before lifting the portion of his mask that covered his mouth, just far enough to down his drink in one go before pulling it back to its regular place. “Disgusting.” He belched.  “So…is it?”

“Is _what_?” You finish your own drink not long after him.

“Your tail. Is it real?” He held up a finger without turning away from you, the universal signal for ‘another’. Your drink was replaced with alacrity.

“Could be,” you tilted your head, eying the heat he was packing. “Is all that real?”

“Oh, shit yeah! Here.” He pulled a large handgun out of a side holster and thrust it at you. “Careful, safety’s off.”

“It’s heavy….and big.” You heft the weighted steel, closing one eye and pointing it at the bartender, following him as he scuttled away in fear, making you chuckle.

“Like…other things I’m packing.” His damp, mask-covered mouth pressed close to your ear and you swung around sharply, startled. The gun fired (weird how that happens when you squeeze the trigger), exploding a lighted display of flavored vodkas behind the bar. A chorus of screams followed.

The weapon was plucked deftly from your hand and re-holstered. “Time to go~,” Deadpool sang, grabbing your hand and yanking you to follow, but not before you had the chance to snag a bottle from behind the bar.

He pulled you quickly, weaving in and out of excited revelers, smiling and waving for the cell phones that inevitably appeared at his approach. “That’s right! It’s your friendly neighborhood Spider-Claus and his elf-bunny!! Erin Go Bragh! May the force be with you! Etcetera!!”

You allowed yourself to be dragged, laughing and taking swigs of the cheap whiskey you had filched. It was shit, but you were just happy is wasn’t sour mix or some other un-alcoholic garbage. Can’t say how many timed you’d made _that_ mistake.

“Hey…sharing is caring!” Deadpool swiped the bottle and shoved his mask up again, ripping the gross Santa beard off in the process (thank god), his adam’s apple bobbing as he chugged the contents. He didn’t shove the fabric down again as he handed the nearly-depleted contents back and you eyed the scared flesh with unabashed curiosity.

“Gross isn’t it?” the line of his jaw tensed despite the toothy grin he was maintaining.

You shrugged. “Eh. S’matter of preference. My vagina has teeth, so I’m not one to talk.”

Deadpool halted in his tracks and spun you to face him. Holding you by the shoulders, he bent his considerable height to reach your eye level. “Is that true???”

You held his gaze (maybe), “You’ll have to find out some time.”

“That…is awesome!” He shook you and you teetered unsteadily on your heels. “Let’s go.” He spun again and pulled you toward a new bar. The crowd parted for the two of you effortlessly.

“Hey! No outside drinks!” The gruff bartender shouted over the clamor of possibly the 800th round of “Whiskey in the Jar” that evening.

The merc yanked the bottle from your grasp and pulled aside one edge of his Santa coat, looking for a pocket in which to stash it. In the process, he managed to give all present a decent show of the impressive array of weapons he was toting. The bartender quickly amended that it was holiday and sure, she guesses that would be alright just this one time…

“How generous of you! A very merry Christmas to all!” Deadpool crowed, pushing you forward to take a place at the quickly depleting line for the bar. He pressed up against you, a completely unnecessary action since there was at least five feet between you and any other person there. You wiggled your cotton-tailed rump against him and he yelped.

“Wh-ahh…what can I get you folks?” The flustered bartender asked, drying her hands nervously on a towel hanging from her belt.

You raise two fingers. “Two, please.”

“Ah….two _what_?” She chuckles nervously, eyes darting to the sides as if searching for help.

You turn your head to look at your raised fingers before turning back to her and shrugging.

“The bunny wants two! Make it happen, my good madam!” Deadpool slams a fist on the sticky surface of the bar to bring his point home.

She scuttles to action, mixing and pouring whatever her hands land on first. “On…on the house.” She stammers as she slides the drinks toward the two of you before hastily retreating to help less threatening patrons.

Deadpool knocks the edge of his cup against yours again before lifting the beverage to his lips. They were in plastic this time. Quite a classy establishment. “Look, she made them to-go! How thoughtful! C’mon!” One again, you find yourself being pulled toward the exit.

Groaning as your toes pinch in your stupid shoes, you whine at him, “Where are we going now? My feet hurt, I want to sit!”

Deadpool turns to face you, the line of his eyebrows visible beneath his mask as he wiggles them suggestively. “I’ll give you something to sit on.”

“Ooh, baby, don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.”

He looks startled for a moment before laughing and pulling you into a new place. It was the kind of joint that would be the picture beneath the word “dive bar” in Webster’s dictionary. Absolutely raunchy and utterly perfect. He swings you into a booth and disappears momentarily. You sigh with pleasure as the pressure is removed from your aching feet as you sit. The man returns, clutching a pitcher of green beer in one hand and two glasses in another.

“Not sure if the green is for the holiday or that’s just standard here. Better let me drink some first. If I die, at least I’ll be able to recover.” He sloshes the liquid into the mug and takes a hearty sip. “It’s….ack!” He chokes dramatically and falls face-first onto the wooden surface with a heavy, final _thud._ Removing one shoe, you lift a foot below the table and press it between his wide-splayed legs, adding a clever twist of your ankle to the pressure.

“Mmmmerf…” He reaches hand down and traps your foot more firmly against him. “Keep…going…need more…foot-to-dick resuscitation.”

Wiggling your toes, you pour yourself a drink from the obviously non-lethal pitcher. “I always wondered about that…” you muse aloud as Deadpool grinds against you, beginning to stir and grow.

He lifts his head just enough to regard you. “Foot-to-di-“

“No, not that. That is obviously a very real life-saving medical technique and one I have had extensive training in. No, I meant-“

“Do they give you a card for that?” The merc pants as you continue rolling the sole of your foot along his ample bulge.

“Shut up, let me finish.” You shove your foot forward harshly and he whines, muttering at a low volume about how he loves it when you’re mean. “I meant about the healing thing. Can you really not die?”

Deadpool shoots up to a sitting position in a flash. “True. Why? Are you an assassin? Were you planted at that bar like a tasty little lucky charm marshmallow to try and kill me? Have I fallen into this trap _again_?” Throughout his paranoid questioning, he never removes your foot from between his legs, even beginning to lift his hips slightly against your movements. Shows how much of a threat he saw you as.

You laugh and finish the beer in your mug, but hold off pouring another. “I wish!”

“Well…that’s…good, I guess. But, way things are now…I’d probably let you as long as you…keep up what you’re doing. Holy sweet Mary of _fuck_ how do you learn to do something like that?” His head drops against the back of the booth as his breathing becomes heavy.

Increasing the pressure, you wrap your toes around the girth of him and slide your foot up and down faster. The hand not holding you against him flexes and twitches on the table. “So…you heal from anything?”

“Yessss….” He hisses, distracted.

“So if I were to…” you smash your beer mug against the wall so it shatters and then pick up a shard and drive it deep into the back of his hand. The blood gushes, bright and dark at the same time. You giggle as he jolts forward, screaming profanities while digging the glass from the wound and chucking it to the floor. The erection beneath your foot has not flagged in the slightest, and you smirk when he leans forward, his mouth twisted into a sneer.

“You’re going to be sorry for that.” He breathes.

You throw your head back, laughing again. “Oh, I hope so!”

Deadpool shoves your foot off of him, sliding out of the booth and yanking you to follow. He lifts you over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, making his way through the crowded pub like a linebacker. You wave cheerily at the customers who seem to be regarding your current situation with expressions of fear and confusion. “Happy Kwanzaa!” You shout to the crowd before Deadpool drops you to your feet and shoves you back into the bar’s storage room. The door closes in your face sharply, with him on the other side. “Hey, what the _fuck!”_ You scream and pound on the door in outage. But the mercenary starts to talk, apparently addressing the concerned spectators outside.

“Fear not, citizens! Nothing to be worried about! That woman-rabbit hybrid you saw is a known corroborator in a heinous and villainous plot! I have tracked her here for questioning, so I implore you: No matter _what_ you hear on the other side of that door…Do NOT interrupt! My methods of interrogation are brutal but effective and once I have the information I need, I will be turning her over to the proper authorities. Carry on with your evening! Address all concerns to Avengers Tower, care of Tony Stark. Thank you, good night!”

You take a step back as Deadpool opens the door again, closing both of you in this time and turning the lock.

“So…what do you think they’re going to hear?” You ask, rubbing one of your bunny ears thoughtfully and looking up at him through your lashes.

“Ohh….lots and _lots_ of screaming,” he grins and shrugs off this Santa coat before darting forward, pinning you to the wall. Your breath catches as he reaches low and tears a hole in the white stockings at your inner thigh, pushing aside your leotard as he presses two fingers forward to swipe along your damp slit. You hiss through your teeth as his mouth latches onto your neck at the same moment those two fingers slide into you, crooking forward and pressing forward on your sensitive inner wall. His teeth drag along your neck as his hand moves faster, his knuckles slamming against the soft flesh between your legs with every upward thrust, surely leaving bruises. You grab onto the holsters at this shoulders, moaning and cursing as you rock up against his hand even more, you’re so close, just needing that extra push to… _he stops._ You whine in frustration.

“I just realized something…you lied to me!” Deadpool turns his face towards yours.

“What?!” Your chest heaves up and down as you hover on the precipice of your orgasm, his fingers holding still and unmoving inside of you. He scissors them and your eyes flutter closed, your entire body vibrating with the need to cum.

“No teeth! You said your vag had teeth! And look!” He removes his hand and you groan as the building heat of your orgasm fades back to a low warmth. His hand snakes behind you to pull off the tail safety-pinned to your leotard. “It comes right off! You are made of lies!”

Growling, you shove him back and fall to your knees in front of him. “You want teeth? I’ll give em to ya…” You yank on the front of his uniform, tugging the stretchy fabric out of the way to free him. Your eyes widen at the heavily scarred length that bobs in front of you. He is…well endowed. And thick.

“Bite off more than you can chew, little rabbit? Ever seen a carrot that big?” Deadpool calls down smugly, observing your reaction.

“Fuck you, Deadpool.” Wrapping a hand around the base of his organ to keep him steady, you open your mouth and slide as far down onto his length as you’re comfortable, and then relax your throat to take more. He sputters above you and you bring your teeth down lightly on the slick flesh of his cock as you pull back slowly and then move to repeat the motion. As you’re sliding down for the third time, he says something almost too low for you to hear. You tilt your head up toward him as far as you’re able with his dick mostly down your throat and make an inquiring “hmmm?” sound.

“Wade. My name is Wade.” He repeats, voice low and breathless.

You slide him out of your mouth with a ‘pop’ and look up to regard him. He watches you raptly, practically thrumming with tension. “Oh, well…” You smile brightly up at him. “Fuck you, Wade. Hold on to something.” You turn back to the task at hand, spitting liberally on the head of his cock and using that slickness to twist a hand around the base as you work your mouth back and forth along him at a much more rapid pace. You add a swirl of your tongue to the movements and the merc begins pouring forth a stream of begging filth that is singularly creative in its depravity. You begin breathing a little heavy yourself, sliding a hand between your thighs to rub at your clit as he talks to you; describing how good your mouth feels, how he loves the sounds you make, that he can’t wait to fuck you and he hopes you’re a screamer, he wants to hear you scream his name with his dick inside you and on and on until you’re desperate for it. Pulling away from his cock, you sit back on your heels to stare up at him, panting.

“Oh, god…please. Yes.” You breathe, sliding a hand up one of his twitching thighs.

In a split second you’re settled on a stack of beer cases, your back against the wall once again as Wade settles himself between your legs. His scabbed lips mash against yours, tongue dipping in and out of your mouth and you suddenly remember, pulling back to break the kiss. “Y-your hand? Did it heal?”

Wade holds still for a second as if the words require some extra filtering before reaching the necessary parts of his brain. He brings the hand in question up in front of your face, letting you see. The wound is almost complete closed…fucking nuts, that is.

“Still bleeding a little…” You observe as you twist the hand this way and that, inspecting it.

“Yeah…well. You got me deep.” You can hear the pout in his voice.

“Oh? And how about you? You gonna get _me_ deep, daddy?” You reach between you, simultaneously tugging the crotch of your leotard out of the way with one hand while yanking him forward by the root of his cock with the other. He whines low in his throat as he sinks into you. The stretch is intense; he fills you so completely that the experience is nearly painful. A sound halfway between a whimper and a moan escapes your throat.

“Hooooly sssshit….are you real?” Wade pants, his cock twitching inside of you.

You want to laugh, but there’s a note of seriousness in his voice that you don’t want to brush off. Grabbing his injured hand again, you dig your nails into the wound, opening it wide again and making fresh blood run. Wade’s mouth falls open, gasping with the pain. “Does that feel real?” You ask.

“Uh…yeah?,” he breathes, hips jerking forward slightly as you lift the bleeding limb to your face and drag the tip of your tongue through a dripping trail. You clench your inner walls around his organ and he groans, long and low. “Does that feel real?”

“Honestly?” He peeks up at you, tilting his head. “This still feels like the kind of shit my brain cooks up to fuck with me. So…”

You cock an elbow and let your fist fly, landing a blow on his cheekbone hard enough to knock his head to one side. “Uhhnnnn….” He moans, his hips starting to move jerkily.

“Now?” You query once more, shaking out your hand.

“Well if I’m being completely truthf-“

“Just shut up and fuck me.”

“Fair enough.”

He slides out of you then slams forward again, burying himself to the hilt. You scream and let your head fall back against the wall as he continues to repeat the motion over and over again. Each long stroke eliciting a fresh scream from you, Wade moaning after every one like it was music to his ears.

“Fast…faster. Please, Wade.” You breathe, scraping your nails along his chest through the fabric of his armor.

He grunts, sliding his hands down to lift up your knees and give himself the proper leverage he needed to really let you have it. His hips snap forward and back, fast and brutal. The pounding slaps of his thrusts echo in the small closet and make the bottles within your makeshift seat rattle and clink. Now it’s your turn to spew the profanities: Begging and pleading, your legs wrap around his hips to pull him in closer, your hands on the back of his head, bringing his face to yours so you can breathe your “please”s and “fuck”s directly into his mouth. His cut hand finds its way to where your bodies meet, the blood flow now sluggish and sticky as it drips down his fingers where they move to tease and flick at your sensitive nub. The heat begins to grow again, that spiraling sensation building as his deft fingers work faster to match the pace of his thrusts. When your orgasm hits, you ride it like a wave, shutting your eyes and crying out his name as your body trembles and twitches with the force of it. Wade drags you forward against him one more time and follows you into his own completion, leaning his forehead against your shoulder while you both allow your breathing to return to normal.

“Ahhhhhhh….good times were had by all.” Wade sighs, snuggling up against you and nuzzling his face into your neck.

“Well… _okay_ times.” You sniff.

“ _Okay_?? Just _okay_?” Wade’s voice rises in indignation.

“Well, yeah. I mean. 1 orgasm = Okay. 2 = good. 3 = great. That’s just science.” You roll your eyes at him, holding up a hand in an “obviously” gesture.

The merc seemed genuinely put out. “But…so….we need to get to…at _least_ 4\. What’s 4?”

“Awesome.”

“5?”

“Amazing.”

“46?”

“Hospitalization.”

“Ah…bad times. Let’s shoot for….5.”

“Does your healing thingy, uh…speed up other things as well?” You bite your bottom lip and raise your eyebrows suggestively.

Wade pulled his limp organ from you, cupping a hand to catch the rush of fluid that followed. He scooped up what he could and wiped it on the wall next to you, then lifted a hand to his chin and nodded at his work, satisfied.

“To answer your question,” he swung his hips side to side, his softened length flopping back and forth, “ _yes._ But…give it a minute or four.”

You pout. “What are we gonna do while we wait?”

Wade’s grin stretched, wide and toothy, as he lowered himself to his knees in front of you. “Maybe we can fit in one or two more orgasms….really aim high, right?” He lifted one of your legs and settled it on his shoulder. Licking his lips and smirking, he threw your earlier warning back at you, “Hold on to something.”

\-----------

_The next morning (ish):_

You roll over in bed, your eyes throbbing in your skull and your mouth dry as the Sahara. You don’t remember making it home, but…here you are. _Yay._ After a few more hours in the storage room of the bar, you and Deadpool decided it was time to call it a night. By that point everything had shut down and it was just too cool of an opportunity to pass up…drinking in an empty bar, playing whatever songs you wanted on the jukebox without someone skipping them for country music, dancing on the bar top and _totally_  looking like the chicks from Coyote Ugly…oh yeah, all of that. However, things got a little…fuzzy for you after that point. But you made it home, right? Did Wade call you a cab? Walk you here? Did he leave a number? You felt around on your nightstand but only found your phone. You scroll through your contacts but don’t see anything new. Bummer. There is the expected inundation of text messages from your girlfriends, checking up on you. You respond to all of them in your group chat:

_Me: I’m home and mostly alive. Had a KILLER time, omg. I had sex with ~Deadpool~ last night, I s2g. Not shitting with you, it happened._

_[…]_

_-Bitch you are so full of it_

_\--Did you actually just end up in times square and fuck one of the guys in the spiderman suits tho ?_

_-are you still drinking right now???_

_Me:_ [poop emoji]

You throw the phone across the room so it lands with a clatter. Ouch. Loud. You roll over gingerly, weighing the pros and cons of getting up for a glass of water when you spot it on the ground: Something red and black and _not_ belonging to your wardrobe. You suddenly become aware of movement in the kitchen, the smell of food cooking, of coffee brewing. You shoot upright, regretting the sharp movement instantly as your head throbs and your stomach rolls with nausea. Glancing at your nightstand again, you notice that there is already a large glass of water waiting for you. Is…does that mean…?

Wade sticks his head around your doorframe, still half-masked, though wearing a pair of your Christmas pajama pants. Man likes to keep in the spirit. “Oh good, you’re up. Where do you keep your maple syrup? I mean the real stuff. I saw the stuff in the fridge, but…ugh.”  He shudders dramatically. “You look like shit.”

You smile at him. “Fuck you, Wade.”

“Let’s eat some breakfast first, please.”

 

 


End file.
